Truth Or Lies

The elevator doors opened and the surgeon and intern stepped in, pushing the cart. The patient had gone silent, pale, his limbs shaking with shock. Shae threw up an arm to prevent the detective from following the patient even as the doors began to close. And when the man rounded on her angrily, she met his gaze with a steady one of her own.

“He’s unconscious. You aren’t going to get anything more from him right now.” She watched the man tuck away his frustration and fury with a control that looked as dangerous as it was deliberate. And when he turned the intensity of his focus on her, it was all she could do not to take a step back.

She had enough experience dealing with cops to last her a lifetime, but she’d never met one like this. The gold shield he displayed didn’t in any way mask his lethal air. “Is he going to make it?”

“Since I don’t have my crystal ball handy, I really couldn’t say.” Shae turned to walk away, but she didn’t get more than a step before a hard grip on her elbow spun her back around.

“In your professional opinion, Dr.—” his gaze dropped to her name tag before recapturing hers again “—O’Riley, what are his chances?”

Boyd DuBois passed them, turning to quiz Shae with raised brows. Aware that her reaction to the detective hadn’t gone unnoticed, she forced a neutral tone. “I’m sorry.” And she was. There was little she despised more than allowing her private life to splash over into the professional. “It’s been pretty wild today with the crash on Interstate 10.” Most of the victims of the pileup had been transported here, straining both emergency-room personnel and surgery.

“I heard about that.” His gaze never left hers. His eyes were an unusual shade of dark jade, and every bit as unyielding. She imagined his penetrating stare was used to great advantage during interrogations.

The observation wasn’t a comfortable one. Shae began walking toward the front desk, and Tremaine fell into step beside her. “I really can’t predict what LeFrenz’s outcome will be. He lost a lot of blood and it’s a good bet there’s still bleeding going on inside. His chances for surviving surgery depend on the path of the bullet and the extent of the internal damage.”

“How long before he’s out of surgery?”

Again she shrugged. Reaching the front desk, she sneaked a glance at her watch. Seven o’clock. Technically she was due to go off shift, but there were still reports to be dictated and paperwork to sign off on. “It could be four hours or more. It’s hard to tell.”

He gave a short nod, started to turn away. “I’ll be back then.”

“You’ll be wasting your time.” Shae didn’t know what made her say it. She was more than ready to part ways with the enigmatic detective. But she couldn’t shake the impression that he’d recently been ill. He possessed a runner’s body, taut and lean, but his bordered on gaunt. “No use losing sleep. From surgery, LeFrenz will go directly to a PACU—post-anesthetic-recovery unit. In all likelihood you won’t be able to speak to him until tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t worry.” It was clear from his tone that he’d misinterpreted the cause of her concern. “I’ll leave my rubber hose at home.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about.” She made no effort to soften the bluntness of her words. “You look like one of the walking wounded. We can’t really spare an extra bed if you collapse during your all-night vigil.”

Oddly her tart remark brought an almost smile to his lips, a softened expression that was as arresting as it was fleeting. “Despite your underwhelming concern, I’ll be back in a few hours. Maybe I’ll see you then, Angel Eyes.” He sauntered away, leaving her to burn over his use of LeFrenz’s name for her.

Turning back to the desk, she snatched down the most recent patient’s chart, aware that DuBois was eyeing her.

“You know, that guy looks familiar.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a cop. They all look alike.”

Her attempt at humor fell flat. Boyd continued to stare in the direction of the double doors Tremaine had disappeared through. “No, I mean I think we worked on him not long ago.” The E.R. resident stared into space, as if searching his memory. “A month ago? No, more like two. Maybe it was when you were out on personal leave.”

She flipped over a page on the chart, continued to make notations as if uninterested. In actuality every nerve was on alert. It was far more comfortable to attend to the reason for Tremaine’s visit here two months ago than on the reason for her leave at the same time. “What’d he present with?”

DuBois had already given up trying to remember. He took down another chart and began to read through it. “I don’t recall. I wasn’t primary. Aren’t you supposed to be going off duty?”

“Pretty soon,” she answered vaguely. But it was another two hours before she’d finished with the charting and dictation. And even then she couldn’t force herself to head for the parking lot. Instead, she sat down in front of a computer, typing in a name.

Cade Tremaine.

The file unfolded slowly on the screen, and Shae leaned closer, scrolling down as she scanned it quickly before she stopped, paused to read more carefully. Minutes later she logged off, more shaken than she cared to admit.

She didn’t know many men who took three bullets to the chest in the line of duty, only to be back on the job two short months later. He’d been dangerously close to death by the time he’d arrived at the hospital, and his recovery must have depended on equal parts luck, science and sheer force of will. Even from the limited time she’d spent with the detective, his tenacity was apparent. She could only assume he’d browbeaten his physician into granting him a release without giving many details of the danger of the job he was returning to. From what she’d witnessed today, it didn’t appear as though he’d allowed his condition to slow him down much.

It shouldn’t matter. As she made her way to the parking lot, she tried, and failed, to convince herself of that. In all likelihood she’d never see the detective again, and a flicker of relief accompanied the thought. What kind of person, after all, exhibited that kind of dedication to his job? A very determined man. Or a very driven one.

Either way, he seemed like an excellent man to avoid.

At dusk St. Jude’s had emptied of the usual tourist tours. In New Orleans cemeteries were notoriously unsafe at night. Row after row of white monuments provided endless hiding places for thieves and muggers waiting to pounce on the unwary. Only foolish or dangerous souls would take a chance and be caught there alone. The woman standing before the narrow gleaming tomb didn’t fit either description.

Cade reached her, placed his hands on her shoulders. “Carla.” She didn’t turn; she must have heard his approach. She covered one of his hands with both of hers.

“We just got the marker up.”

“I saw that. It looks good.” Silently they both stared at the shiny gold plaque.

Brian Hollister, beloved husband of Carla, father of Benjamin and Richard. Died too young in the line of duty.

“He was a good cop, wasn’t he, Cade?”

“The best.” There was no doubt in his voice, none in his mind. He’d partnered with Brian since he’d made detective four years ago, was godfather to both his children. He’d spent as much time at the Hollister home as he did at his own apartment. And not a day had passed in the past two months that he didn’t feel guilty for being alive while his friend lay lifeless in the family vault.

“I can’t tell you what it means to hear you say that.” Carla turned to face him, and he saw the toll the recent weeks had taken on her. Always delicate, the Creole beauty looked as though a good wind would tumble her over. There was no sign of her familiar teasing smile, but the haunted look in her dark eyes struck a chord. He saw the same in his own each time he looked in the mirror.

“Have they gotten to you yet, Cade?”

He frowned, not understanding her meaning. “Has who gotten to me?”

“Internal Affairs.” The venomous tone sounded foreign to her usually soft voice. “They’ve been to the house at least three times, most recently yesterday. At first they danced around things, saying how sorry they were about Brian. Then they started asking questions. Had he said where he was going that night, what he was going to be doing? Yesterday they asked if they could go through his things.”

Her words seemed to come from a distance. Internal Affairs? Cade tried, and failed, to imagine a positive reason for them to be looking into the shooting. The whole event, as much as he remembered of it, had been laid out in the report he’d dictated to the investigating officers. Then her last sentence registered, and her revelation started to take on an even more ominous light. “What did they want to look through?”

“Brian’s case files. They asked whether he kept notes on any ongoing investigations and I said no. You know Brian left work at work.”

“What are they looking for?”

She gave a harsh laugh. “Irregularities is the word they used. Like he was a damn accountant or something. When I press for more information, they clam up. But every time they come around, they get pushier, and one of them threatened to get a search warrant.”

Although trepidation was circling in his gut, he made an automatic effort to soothe. “Don’t worry about it, Carla. It’s just I.A. on another wild-goose chase.”

She clutched his arm, her fingers biting. “I was a policeman’s wife for eight years. I know what I.A.’s all about. Cops hunting other cops. They think Brian was dirty. They’re investigating him.”

Looking into her liquid dark eyes, he couldn’t find it in himself to lie to her. “What are their names?”

“Torley and Morrison. Do you know either of them?”

He shook his head. But then, he wasn’t especially well-acquainted with anyone from I.A. Because of their occupation, the cops he knew had a healthy disdain for that department. Ferreting out corruption in the ranks was a noble enough calling, he supposed, but good cops had a way of getting dragged into their investigations, too. And the taint of an I.A. investigation had stalled more than one police officer’s career.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his wallet. It took a moment searching the contents before he found what he was looking for. He took out a card and handed it to her. “I want you to get in touch with someone at this number.” She took the card and looked at it. “It’s the policemen’s-rights committee. Tell them what’s been going on and then follow whatever advice they give you.”

Her jaw set in an expression that was all too familiar. “I can’t call them, Cade. It’d be like admitting there was substance behind I.A.’s interest.”

“It’s an admission that you need help,” he retorted, “and with I.A. sniffing around, for whatever reason, you do. Call them. I’m going to check in tomorrow to make sure you did. Got it?” He waited until she gave him a reluctant nod. “Good.” Gathering her close, he patted her back reassuringly. “Don’t worry. It’ll all turn out to be nothing.”